Thundershowers
by Rhianwen
Summary: There has always been something so fascinating about a thunderstorm. JokerWendy. Cute sap with a slight twist of...not so much. Blatant overuse of italics. Post ROD the TV.


Thundershowers

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Summary: "There has always been something so _fascinating_ about a thunderstorm." Joker/Wendy. Cute sap with a slight twist of...not so much. Blatant overuse of italics. Post ROD the TV.

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Disclaimer: The characters depicted herewithin are owned by the guy who came up with them. This is not the same guy who wrote this story, as the guy who wrote the story is a girl. :)

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There's always been something so _fascinating _about a thunderstorm. 

Even as a very small child, the appeal of her pretty dolls and pretty frocks and her _brand-new bicycle_ that used to be her brother's until Daddy painted it pink and white for her, couldn't hold up against the pull of that _growly sound_ from the sky and the rain beating wildly against the window. The toys would always be abandoned in the middle of the floor, and she would be scolded, but not care because she was still flushed with elation from the storm and the cool fresh clean smell of the world when she was finally allowed to have the window open.

Earlier this evening, when she heard the distant rumble of thunder, she was at the window of the tiny, slightly shabby bedroom that she claimed when they first came here in the interest of giving him the larger one and because this tiny one overlooked the rolling hills instead of the orchards, in an instant.

Kneeling in the shabby pretty little blue wing chair before the window and eagerly awaiting the next dazzling display of lightning to briefly illuminate the sky pitch-dark with night and heavy grey clouds. Impulsively, throwing the window open to let in the strong wind and the rain and the scent of the night and the storm.

Now the storm has persisted for nearly an hour, and not everyone shares her interest in staring avidly out into the rain.

When he approaches, she doesn't hear his light footfalls; doesn't see the bobbing flickering circle of pale watery light from the only candle he could find.

After a moment of watching with crossed arms and amused smile, he reaches for her, and she jumps slightly and muffles a startled cry at his light touch on her shoulder.

"I wondered where you'd gotten off to." His voice is gently exasperated, with a warm smile apparent in it. His eyes drop to the silky deep blue robe knotted loosely and flicker back up again to damp hair and flushed cheeks before she has time to do more than duck her head sheepishly with a slight grin.

"Sorry. I wanted to watch the storm."

He raises one eyebrow curiously.

"When did you become an aspiring meteorologist?"

The faint pink flush in her cheeks, even in the small room illuminated only by the dim light of the candle and the occasional day-bright flash of lightning, catches his eye.

"I've always liked watching lightning storms," she replies with a shrug of slightly forced casualness. "When I was little, it never occurred to me that I _shouldn't_ be outside during one – for a better look, you know – until I got scolded once when I was five."

He laughs softly, oddly charmed by the image of a tiny child with her soft pale feathery hair and huge blue eyes, in some sort of frilly pink frock no doubt, staring fascinated at the falling rain and the dazzle of lightning flashes splitting the sky, utterly unheeding of both her pretty frock and her pretty hair becoming utterly drenched.

Half annoyed and half delighted that she's made him laugh, she continues.

"There's just something I love about the rain and the noise and the lightning. I almost can't help watching a storm when one comes up."

"I don't suppose you've noticed, with all your _storm-watching_, but the power's gone out," he tells her a little sourly, in time with the frantic beat of the rain on the window pane and a rumble of thunder not as far off as before.

She reaches for the candle he's carrying.

"You should put that down somewhere; the last thing we need is the place to catch fire."

He stares in brief astonishment as she tugs it from his hand and slides it onto the nearby dresser.

It's difficult to get used to, this confidence she's apparently gained with him through being effectively left to keep both of them alive during the months that he has no memory of.

Difficult to get used to, but not entirely unpleasant. Maybe that's because already he can see it fading back into her old familiar easy compliance that now seems to border on passivity.

By the time he's formed a comment, she is kneeling in the chair before the window again, and staring out into the driving rain.

After he's watched her for a while, in slightly annoyed surprise at being so entirely ignored in favour of her silly hobby of watching rain, he moves closer behind her. She stiffens a bit as he rests one knee on the chair between hers and braces himself with one hand on either armrest.

"I'll watch with you," he tells her amiably, very close to the back of her ear. "It's certainly more interesting than sitting alone in a dark room, waiting for the power."

Shivering slightly at his arms nearly around her, she nods briefly.

"Right."

Time passes in silence between them, a silence finally broken by a crack of thunder that follows very quickly a streak of lightning that seems to hang suspended for several seconds. The corners of the small plain room, bare but for the very few pieces of furniture she found there, are illuminated with this bright, cold, vibrant, almost otherworldly light.

"It's getting closer," he points out quietly after both have caught their breath.

She nods slightly, wondering at the slight tremble in her hands where they rest on the windowsill. It is awfully like fear, this sensation that she'll go to pieces if shaken too violently, but she has never been _afraid_ of a storm before.

And she wonders if it's the crash and struggle and driving rain outside the window making her pulse beat madly like this and her breath quicken, or if it's his heat and presence around her and his breath stirring her hair as his chest brushes lightly against her back and his arms rest against hers.

Probably both.

She strongly doubts that it's neither.

A quick glance over her shoulder at him, and she catches her breath.

Through the wildly flickering and dancing play of light and shadow over his face, she can see something in the quirk of his mouth that she thinks she recognizes from another man's smile, a long time ago, before they came here and he became _really_ the only man in her life.

And almost before she's aware of it, she has twisted about to face him, hand bunching at his shirt front to pull him closer.

Kissing him with all the feverish intensity of the storm outside; of a woman who _hasn't had this in far too long_.

And impossibly, he's kissing her in return, hands sliding silkily over her spine to rest at her hip and the base of her neck; kissing her with all the familiarity and sureness of years that they've never spent together this way; kissing her, and leading her from the window.

The scent of the storm follows them after the breeze cannot, and she remains aware of it even as her robe slides effortlessly open, a silky blue pool rippling beneath her.

Beneath his hands when he leans over her, carefully bracing himself against the mattress.

Another, longer, flash of lightning hangs in the sky for several seconds, and strange shadows spring up in the room and dance and flicker over her skin and over his when they hold tightly to all that's real now, unheeding of shadows or light or even the scent of the rain, or of anything outside of heat and sweat-damp hair and the sheets tangled around their legs and tangling them more irreversibly together.

It's over nearly as soon as it begins, and begins and ends again and again before either is aware that the storm has ended long ago, because it's been far too long since he's had this, too.

There's no point in fruitless worry about whether or not this means anything to him outside of a convenient release of tension, or whether it means anything more to her when she really thinks about it. Now that it's happened once, and the sky didn't fall down or the earth split to swallow them up for the sin of _shattered professionalism_, it will likely happen again when one or both of them need it very badly.

And maybe even when they don't need it _terribly_ badly, but would just rather be together than alone.

Small comfort, the warmth of a human hand and the sound of a human voice in place of the dark oppression of solitude late at night when she begins to worry that there is _really no way_ they can stay hidden like this much longer, and that their sins will have to catch them out sooner or later. Small comfort, because he does not see the matter the way she does, and is more likely to become angry than sympathize when she timidly approaches the matter of her fears of discovery and punishment. But a small comfort that she thinks she might very well need far more than physical release that will be his motivation to come to her this way again.

And as they lay tangled together after, neither willing to move _quite_ yet, the scent of the rain and the wind and the night reaches her. She smiles against his shoulder and wraps one arm more snugly around his neck as he kisses her forehead lightly.

There's always been something so _fascinating_ about a thunderstorm.

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End Notes: Hee! Another Utterly Ungraphic Lemon by Rhianwen. Yaay! 

This one was born out of the adorable mental image of Li'l Wendy watching a rainstorm, and the equally adorable mental image of Joker sort of shaking his head as Not-So-Li'l Wendy watches a rainstorm several years later.

Yes. These things are, indeed, cute to me. :D


End file.
